Blue Moon Rising
by Count of Eight
Summary: The boy with the blue hair has never been interested in the stars. A character study on Hisoka's childhood. Warning: sexual content.


Blue Moon Rising

A Hisoka character study

The boy with the blue hair has never been interested in the stars.

They are remote, unreachable. The abstract holds no romance for him, no mystery. He has only ever cared about what he can hold in his own two hands. The city taught him long ago that those are the only things that are real enough to matter; anything else is a waste of time. Just smoke and mirrors. He doesn't care about the stars, but tonight he looks up. A full moon hangs low in the sky and as it fills his vision he finds himself wondering if something interesting will happen.

The streets, if they could even be called that, are empty; all the other residents of this place already huddled in whatever kind of shelter they could find or construct for the night. It stinks, but he doesn't notice it anymore. Anyone raised in this place has that stench permanently burned into their nostrils. Rancid and sour, with overtones of the chemicals that soak the piles of rubble and filth. It permeates every inch of this city. It smells like home.

He thinks that maybe he hates it here, but it is the sum total of the world he knows. There is a world outside of this one. No one likes to talk about it, but he has become very good at overhearing things that he shouldn't, and he wonders what it might be like to go there someday. But this city is like a living thing, malevolent and grasping, and once it has you in its clutches it doesn't give you up easily. Even if you do get out, it's not the sort of place a person just shakes off; it gets into your bones. Once you've belonged to it, you will never truly be free of it's smothering embrace.

He knows that one day he'll leave; the city can't hold him here forever, however hard it may try, but he worries slightly that maybe he'll reach the outside world and find it to be just as dull and uninteresting as it is here. The same song, just with different words. He thinks he might feel disappointed, but it is no matter. If he does not find the entertainment he seeks then he will simply create it; a talent that he has perfected for himself in the bowels of this lost place. He decided long ago that it doesn't matter what he finds out there. He is never coming back.

The boy stops for a moment to consider the jagged edges of a burnt-out building. He has to admit that it holds a particular sort of aesthetic. The reduction of beautiful things to husking remains of their former selves has always excited him in a way he doesn't quite know how to explain. The building next to it is a bit less worse for wear, and he smiles slightly at the comparison; lips curling upwards in a way that others tended to find strangely unpleasant for one so young. He turns to continue on, but a hand closes around his mouth, snatching him backwards into the darkness between the two buildings.

~~~III~~~

The man looks down at the boy in his arms. He's not struggling, which is strange, and when he sets him down he doesn't try to run. In fact, the child doesn't seem frightened at all, but that's fine, he's not picky about that. Just to be safe he keeps a firm hand on the back of the boy's neck as he fumbles himself free of his pants, but the kid doesn't move an inch. He just looks calmly up at him, and in the moonlight the man would swear his eyes looked yellow. It must be his lucky night, if he's this quiet so far the kid might not even scream.

He thinks he hears the boy make a small sound; perhaps a soft huff of laughter as he spits a wad of what looks like chewing gum out beside him. He isn't given time to wonder about that laugh however, before small hands close around his hardening length with surprising dexterity, working him until he thinks he is harder than he has ever been in his life. It really is his lucky night, he decides through a haze of pleasure. Maybe he'll even bring the kid home with him; the wife's always saying she wants one.

"You like this, right? This is what you wanted?" The boy's voice is soft and melodius, surrounding him through the pleasant fog that fills his brain; then there is nothing but tight, slick heat as the small mouth closes around him, swallowing him down expertly, hungrily. His head falls back against the wall, eyes unfocused. Sharp fingernails rake across his skin, surprising the man, but it's not unpleasant. Could be difficult to explain to the wife come morning, but he'll think of something. He always does. But that thought is a dim one. Distant; shoved far into the back of his consciousness. That thought is for the future. In the now he rides waves of searing ecstasy closer and closer to the edge of a towering precipice, and when he's finally looking down over the edge he tries to hang on, to make it last, but there's no stopping it and he topples over with a shuddering moan that shakes him from head to toe. He doesn't realize he's fallen to his knees until he finds himself staring directly into uncanny eyes. Are they yellow? He thinks they are. Somehow it doesn't seem important.

"It seems you've enjoyed yourself," comes the light, musical voice. "I hope you don't mind if I take a turn?" He never even has time to scream when those small, clever fingers close upon his windpipe, crushing it. The man lets out a confused gurgle, but that is all he can manage. That, and watch as full lips twist upward again in that strangely unpleasant smile.

For a long time after, the silence is broken only by the soft sounds of flesh being methodically torn asunder and the wet, throaty noises of a man trying to scream who is no longer capable of any such feat. When the night finally fades into quiet again the small confines of the alley are spattered with red; pools glinting dully in the moonlight. In the middle of it all stands the boy, pristine except for a small drop of blood that has splashed his cheek. He carefully collects the fluid on a pale fingertip and brings it to his lips, staining them red with a brush of his finger.

The boy with the blue hair presses a bloody kiss to the fading warmth of the dead man's lips. "Thanks for a good time," he hums softly before fading back into the night.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Thank you so much for reading!

I took a few liberties with his past since we never actually get any information on it. I pictured him as having come from Meteor City, so that's how I wrote it. That place seems excellent at churning out high-caliber and slightly warped individuals, and it made more sense to me that the backstory of someone as prolific as him could only remain secret if it was a condition of the place he was raised. If he came from some ordinary town rumors would be flying around like crazy, or at least that's how I chose to look at it.

Oh, one more piece of relevant information. I have him as about the same age as Gon and Killua for the purposes of this fic, in case anyone was wondering!

With all that being said, this is the first thing I've published in years so I welcome all comments and criticisms! Let me know what, if anything, I did right and what could use some work. Thanks for taking the time to read!


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